Chapter Two: Rules of the House

Rayna wasn’t sure what woke her—maybe it was the faint sound of footsteps or maybe just the heat pooling between her legs from the dream she’d been having.

She rolled over with a sigh, her tank top clinging to the sweat on her skin, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples had gotten from just thinking about him.

Roman.

The way he looked at her yesterday… like she was trouble.

He was right.

And that only made her want to be worse.

⸻

Downstairs, the house was too quiet. She padded barefoot through the marble hallway, following the scent of fresh coffee. Her tank top hung loose over her hips, the soft satin shorts riding high on her thighs. She didn’t bother fixing them. Let him see. Let him burn.

Roman stood in the kitchen, back turned, muscles shifting under a tight black t-shirt as he reached into a cabinet.

“I thought billionaires had staff,” she said, grabbing a mug from the counter.

“I do,” he said without looking at her. “I sent them away for the week.”

“Why?”

“Privacy.”

Rayna leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, watching him. “Are you hiding something?”

He finally turned. Those eyes pinned her in place like nails through silk. “Yes.”

Her stomach twisted—in the best way.

Roman walked toward her, slow, controlled. He didn’t stop until he was just inches away. Rayna had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, and God help her, she didn’t move back.

“You’re under my roof now,” he said, voice low and sharp like a blade. “That means you follow my rules.”

Rayna licked her lips. “I didn’t know I signed up for boot camp.”

“You didn’t. But I’m not your friend, your father, or your little crush. I’m a man who values order.”

His eyes dropped to her tank top. Her nipples were clearly visible. She didn’t flinch.

“You really walked down here dressed like that?”

“You really looked.”

Silence.

The tension cracked like lightning.

Roman moved even closer, and Rayna’s breath hitched. She could feel the heat coming off his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne—something smoky and dominant, like leather and expensive sin.

“If you’re going to live here, you’ll obey three things,” he said, voice dark.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve made rules for me?”

“You live in my house. You eat my food. You sleep under my roof. Yes, there are rules.”

Rayna smirked. “Let me guess… don’t touch your stuff, don’t make a mess, and stay quiet like a good little girl?”

He leaned down, lips close to her ear.

“No men. No sneaking into my wing. And don’t test me, Rayna.”

Her body ignited at the sound of her name on his tongue. The way he said it—slow, controlled, like he was already imagining saying it while she was on her knees.

“What if I want to test you?” she whispered.

Roman pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. His face gave nothing away, but his pupils were blown wide, his jaw tight.

“Then you better be ready to take the consequences.”

A thrill ran down her spine.

“Are you always this controlling?” she asked.

“I prefer the word disciplined.”

Rayna laughed. “You sound like a dom.”

Roman didn’t flinch.

She stopped laughing.

Holy shit.

“You’re not denying it,” she said, voice suddenly breathless.

“I don’t waste time denying what’s true.”

He stepped away, and the room felt colder instantly.

“You’ll have dinner at 7. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone.

⸻

The day dragged.

Rayna tried to focus on unpacking, but her brain kept returning to that moment in the kitchen. The way he got close, the way he spoke to her like she belonged to him already. Like she needed to be trained.

The worst part? She liked it.

She liked the way her heart pounded when he gave commands. Liked the slow, threatening drawl in his voice when he told her not to test him.

She’d always been independent. Feisty. No man ever told her what to do.

But Roman wasn’t just a man.

He was a force.

⸻

By the time dinner rolled around, she was dressed in something halfway respectful—tight black jeans, a cropped blouse that showed just enough to tease. She didn’t wear a bra. Let him notice. Let him break.

The dining room was long and dramatic, with dark wood, chandeliers, and a fireplace already lit.

Roman was seated at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. He looked up as she entered—and stared.

Just a second too long.

Rayna sat across from him, crossing her legs slowly. “You’re staring again.”

“You’re testing again.”

She smirked. “Didn’t you say dinner was at seven?”

“It is.” He set the tablet down. “And you’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, taking a bite of roasted chicken.

“I closed a deal today. Multi-million dollar contract.”

“Daddy’s making money,” she teased.

He froze.

She almost laughed—until she saw the way his expression changed.

A spark ignited in his eyes.

He stood up slowly, walked toward her, and braced both hands on the table, leaning over until his face was just above hers.

“Say that again,” he said softly.

Rayna swallowed hard. Her body was betraying her—aching, tingling in places it shouldn’t. But her mouth?

Her mouth was reckless.

“Daddy.”

A beat of silence.

Then he leaned in and whispered, “Keep playing, little girl. You won’t like how I punish brats.”

Rayna stared up at him, breath caught in her throat, thighs squeezing together under the table.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t stop the rush of heat pulsing between her legs.

Because the truth was…

She wanted the punishment.